


A Sick, Twisted Trick

by yoshmosh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Feels, Hurt, Other, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshmosh/pseuds/yoshmosh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first fan fic ever. Just a short one with lots of Reichenbach feels.</p><p>No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this straight after the last episode, so it's pretty old. I just finally got round to putting it up.
> 
> This was my first go at any kind of fan fiction. Just a quick one about John three years after Sherlock falls. 
> 
> No slash in this one, so if that's what you're after, you will be thoroughly disappointed.
> 
> Enjoy!

   
The funeral was attended by John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, all dressed in dark clothing - Mrs Hudson in a new black dress specifically bought for the occasion, Lestrade in his usual black suit jacket, trousers and white shirt, and John in a black jacket, black jeans and his flatmates blue scarf. Lestrade stood silently with wet eyes, supporting the sobbing Mrs Hudson who was saying goodbye to a man she considered her own son, knowing well that no parent should bury their child. John, a military man by nature, stood with squared shoulders, spine dead straight and looking forward, trying his hardest to keep his gaze off the gold letters carved into the headstone. His expression was plain, his eyes empty, and the only thing betraying his otherwise calm facade were the fingernails digging deep into the palms on either side of his otherwise relaxed body.   
  
John had gone back to the burial spot once.   
  
 _Don't. Be. Dead. Just for me, stop it. Just stop this._  
  
A month after the funeral, John had regrettably moved out of 221B Baker Street, knowing that he shouldn't leave Mrs Hudson as well, but she understood his actions, and promised that she would leave the flat as John had requested - nothing was to be touched. He wasn't sure what he would achieve by leaving the flat in it's current condition, but he still had a sliver of hope - no, it wasn't hope - he still feared that what he had witnessed, what had kept him from sleeping properley, what his flatmate had said, was all true. He wanted to believe it wasn't true.  
  
 _This phone call. It's uh...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note._  
  
John knew what those words meant, but every fibre in his body was screaming at him to deny them.   
  
 _Leave a note when?_  
  
 _Goodbye John._  
  
 _No. Don't._  
  
And yet, John knew it was stupid. He had watched his best friend jum-  
  
However much he wanted to believe that it was all a trick - a sick, twisted trick - he couldn't deny that what he had watched wasn't real. The arms spread out like great, black wings, the beautiful, perfect body leaning foward and going over, the great mind bleeding on the cold pavement.  
  
He moved out of the flat because everything reminded him of _him_. The moulding petri dishes sitting on the coffee table, the chemistry set spread out on the kitchen table, the fingers in the jar at the bottom of the freezer. Not to mention the violin sitting innocently on _his_ chair. John even had to close _his_ bedroom door, because venturing in there usually resulted in tears, sobs and pleads as John crashed to _his_ bedroom floor clutching an old shirt.  
  
And 3 years on, he sits on his old, ordinary bed, in his old, ordinary bedroom, in his old, ordinary flat. Nothing there reminds him of the past. Not the kitchen table, not the plain, cream walls, not the clean desk in the corner of the living room. Nothing except for the blue scarf that John wears as often as possible, clinging onto the only reminder he has of his best friend. His hand, which was still when he was around _him_ , now trembled constantly. His limp had come back, he wasn't surprised.  
  
John had tried to move on. He had met people, made friends, even went as far as dating a few women. But nothing filled the vacuum that now sat inside him, the hole that  _he_ had carved out and only  _he_  was able to fill. He remembers one occasion on a date with a woman named Sophie.   
  
"So, how's life without that...detective? I think it's better that he's gone, a maniac like that was bound to have killed himself, and you! Better sooner than later."  
  
John had calmly stood up, the military man that he was, politely excused himself and left without another word.  
  
 _...and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And something I did a little later on.

Three years on, Sherlock sits on the floor of his unkept apartment, propped up against a cream wall in his bedroom. His new laptop, only purchased by Mycroft that morning, is placed on his thighs. And he stares at those words, the words that he dreaded to see.

 

'I will no longer be updating this blog, due to obvious reasons. I would just like to say thank you for everyone's support, it has not gone unnoticed. His memory will live on in all of us.'

 

And it's those words that make him get up and dig hungrily through his bathroom cabinet. 

 

_Seriously? This guy, a junkie?_

 

Yes, John. Sherlock tightens the rubber strap just above his elbow, holding the long end tight with his teeth, and pushes the plunger as far as it goes. Sherlock has no other way of coping. The short doctor  was his drug, giving him a better high than any of the drugs Sherlock previously used, but now there is no John. 

 

If it wasn't for his ignorance, he wouldn't have been forced to rip his best friends heart in two. Mycroft kept Sherlock updated with videos and pictures of John, because Mycroft knew that Sherlock wanted to know what was going on with his best friend, even though Sherlock was always too proud to admit it. 

 

And Sherlock had always thought he was able to divorce himself from his feelings, but knowing what he was putting John through by not going back was tearing him apart. It invaded his thoughts, his actions. Lestrade didn't know he was alive, no one but Mycroft and Molly did, so he had no way to solve crimes. He was insane without the work, and the drugs he injected into his bloodstream calmed his destructive thoughts down. 

 

From the day Sherlock watched John talk to his grave, the unbearable guilt had slowly built up in his chest. The photos provided by Mycroft were proof of John's grief, and the only way to get away from this unbearable guilt was to become dependant on drugs.

 

_You were the most human...human being I've ever known._

 

So Sherlock sat, feeling the drug take hold, feeling it run through his veins like John's presence used to, and he slowly detroyed himself, because he didn't want to - he couldn't - live without his doctor. 

 

Everyday dragged past in a drug induced haze, and slowly but surely Sherlock's body started to react. His skin started stretching sickly over his already visible bones, his eyes darkened and became surrounded with dark purple halos. His hair became dull, losing all of it's former shine and curl. John had kept him alive, but now there was nothing left. 

 

_I owe you so much._

 

No John, Sherlock had though, I owe YOU so much.

 

While Sherlock was still out solving cases before his fall, his acquaintances - as he liked to call them - joked about him not having the ability to feel. _Freak,_  they called him. And Sherlock undoubtedly agreed with them, who needed feelings and emotions? Dull.

 

John had made him a better man. Sherlock now remembers his first feeling towards John. Content. John wasn't like the others. The others were annoying, even their meer thinking drove Sherlock up the wall. But Sherlock had found that John's quiet buzzing in the computer lab during that first meeting was something that he could live with. Something he could accept. Something he _liked._  

 

And on that rooftop, knowing he was about to jump, extending one arm down to John in a silent goodbye, Sherlock knew what love was. Love was tears rolling down a face, love was being irritated but instantly forgiving, love was leaving John to save his life. 

 

And Sherlock jumped, making his other half watch in shock, because living in a world without John would have been pointless. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment, review, I would like that a lot.
> 
> :)


End file.
